


Inbetween

by xavie



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Crossdressing, Gen, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-11
Updated: 2010-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-07 21:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xavie/pseuds/xavie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What can I do when I read about 'Degenerate sexual habits and their destructive influence on Morale and Reproduction' - and realize that I am already corrupt?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inbetween

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moon_eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=moon_eyes).



> This story was written for the Harry Potter Femmefest 2009. Humble thanks to my amazing beta lian! All kinds of feedback are welcome ^^ Enjoy!

You pick us up from the Burrow together with Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Professer Lupin. Mr Lupin tells us that we don't have to call him 'Professor' anymore. Instead he introduces us to you – a colourful young witch with pink hair and dark eyes, probably Charlie's age. 'Wotcher.' you say with a grin.

We leave our home the day after our arrival from Hogwarts. That is, Mom and Dad, Ron, the twins and me. Percy has recently set up a tiny flat of his own in London. I envy him, especially with the chaos prevailing here today. Our questions as to why we're moving are fended off effectively. Not even Fred and George have a clue.

There is hardly enough time for packing. Still, Mom does not only take her best cooking gear and Gilderoy Lockhart's 'Comprehensive Council on Keeping Your Kids from Crisis' but also gets us to repack our school trunks. As if we are not about to start our holidays!

Dressed in jeans, T-shirts, skirts and blouses, we take the bus from Ottery St Catchpole, then the train to London and finally the tube. Dad tries to point out all the exciting details to me: The ticket machine, the electronic display at the platform and so on, while I stare into space in boredom. Throughout the journey, your gaze – although flickering here and there in vigilance – keeps returning to my face. It annoys me that I can't see your eyes behind your overly large sun glasses.

You've made jokes about us when we packed our brooms at the Burrow, so we should have been prepared for there not being a yard to practice Quidditch. But I didn't expect that there wouldn't be any room for breathing. Sirius, who has been staying here for the past weeks, already looks like he has never escaped from Azkaban – pale and depressed. He welcomes us like a thirsty man in the desert welcomes a caravan carrying water. But I'm not sure if anyone can bring water to this place. The walls seem to be leaning inwards as if to suck in every spoken word. It's a living grave.

Obviously they put us here for security reasons. In this house that is infested with Dark Magic like no other place in London. That means for us that we cannot leave it, and also that we have to make it fit for living, since Dark artifacts and dangerous creatures seem to be lurking in every other corner. Sirius and Mr Lupin proudly tell us about the progress they have made already over dinner. But seriously, it's still a gruesome place.

Mom and Dad try their best to make us feel at home. Dad goes to the office every day and Mom fixes breakfast. I firmly believe that even the chores she sets us are part of the plan. So I grumpily scrub the kitchen and help her decontaminate the pantry. Mom says it's the most important part of the house, and that's why we have to clean it first. She gets to help Ron as well, but Fred and George are making themselves scarce. I don't see why they don't work here with us. Ron claims they help Sirius and Mr Lupin with the first floor bedrooms, but I can well imagine them sneaking away from their duties as soon as Mom turns their back on them.

In the evening we are covered in dust and smelly spider webs and Ron wears a burn mark from the fire that broke out at the hearth when we accidently triggered a booby trap. I turn to the stairs to see you standing there, in Auror's robes today, your hair a frizzy blonde. How long have you been watching me?

Mom follows my glare. 'Nymphadora! Why didn't you say hello? Please, sit! We should be finished here in no time.'

I don't know why your smile irritates me so much, but it does. I'm glad we are done here. 'I'm having a shower.' I say, stomping out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

 

*°*°*

 

You are only the first to arrive that evening. After dinner, Auror Shacklebolt and Mad-Eye Moody arrive. Instantly the kitchen is filled with their loud voices, as they talk to Mr Lupin and Dad. We try to hang around and listen, but the doorbell rings again and the professors McGonagall, Dumbledore and then even Snape step through the door.

What follows is a secluded meeting that goes on for hours. I think it's an outrage that they are able to lock us out from our own kitchen. Fred and George think it's a disgrace that they haven't invented anything yet to spy on the meeting. Ron thinks it's nauseating to see Professor Snape again so soon after term's end.

All of us have pressed one ear to the wooden door in the hope for scraps of the conversation. Things like '… the boy's word be trusted' or '…still save at the place' tell us they must be discussing Harry and his experience at the Triwizard Tournament. I shudder at the thought that they are discussing in detail what Harry himself can speak about only vaguely. But there's more: 'with the current situation at the ministry…' that is Dumbledore. Then Shacklebolt says: '… stand guard at all times. We must be prepared when he tries again.' Then we hear only mumbling for a while. I can make out your voice but not your words. Questions are being asked, the conversation gets faster and more heated. Then suddenly Mom shouts: 'No, it's too dangerous! They are still children!'

We all exchange looks, both embarrassed and angry. I feel like I've heard enough.

While the others stay crouched at the bottom of the stairs, I retreat to the first floor and close my bedroom door behind me. My trunk is open and the stuff spread all over my half of the room. Ron's old jeans must be somewhere at the bottom. My search for it sends more items to the floor. When I find it I quickly shed my skirt and pull on the loose-fitting, bleached out trousers. The skirt lands on a heap on the floor. It is strange how a piece of clothing makes me much more relaxed in an instant.

My mood improves like a broom picking up speed. I fetch another item from the trunk – one of my Dad's buttoned shirts – and shrug it over my shoulders. It doesn't really match, since the shirt with its band collar and fine line of beige buttons was originally meant to go under a dress robe. But I leave it open to show my T-shirt that says '21', which is as good as anything else. My hair gets hidden under a printed cap. But my reflection in the window tells me that this is not good enough. I look at my girlishly round cheeks and the curves showing under my Dad's shirt. My breasts are already too big for my taste. I only hope they won't grow more.

Walking over to the door, I recheck that it is locked. Then I pull shirt and t-shirt over my head and start rummaging in the trunk again. There are the bandages. It's a piece of work, but definitely worth it. When they are neatly tied over my breasts, I get my top and shirt again, and the cap, of course. Then I grab my broom and practice hovering.

It's not that easy a task in a tiny bedroom, but I've done it a hundred times in the orchard at home. I wish I had a better broom than Bill's ancient Dragon Scout, which is horribly off-balance. But a bad broom is still better than no broom at all.

The task is to keep the broom still in mid-air while it wants to zoom off. After bumping into the bed and cupboard a few times I get the hang of it again. A smile is spreading over my face as the horrible house and the downstairs meeting and everything lose importance. This is it.

Next step. Holding the broom steady with both hands, I climb to my knees. It twitches under me, and I think I feel every knothole in the wood as I force it to stability. But I manage! Then I set one foot on the broom, loosen my hands and start to rise. It shakes like mad. I rise to full height and keep the balance with my outstretched arms, grinning like a maniac. I know for a fact that Ron has never managed this.

I catch my reflection in the window. Some hair has slipped out of the cap and I tuck it back. In an attempt to look cooler, I lower my arms and shoulders and push my chin forward. Yeah, that's better. I smirk at myself. Then I lose balance, the broom slips sideways and I crash on the bed. I curse loudly at the stab of pain in my side.

 

*°*°*

 

Things get both better and worse when Hermione arrives the day after. Better because with Hermione there is someone to talk to, someone to keep me busy, since the boys decided that they can do well without me. (And she brings Crookshanks, too, and every living being counts in this graveyard house.) Worse because I hate to share my room. Of course, I've been living in a dormitory for years at Hogwarts, but it's different with only her and me. She always straightens her duvet right after getting out of bed and never leaves her laundry on the floor. How can anyone be so tidy? I wouldn't care, I think, if it wasn't for Mom, who stands in the doorway and orders me around, wagging her finger at me.

And if it wasn't for Hermione, I would have never found the book.

She has managed to establish study time tables for Ron, herself and me after only two days. 'There's an excellently equipped library here. We shouldn't waste this opportunity. If we study for three hours a day, there'll be still plenty of time for decontaminating the house and leisure time.' she declares. Between Mom and Hermione, I wonder if there'll be anything left of my holidays.

Despite my brother's whining and my own bad temper we follow her discipline for seven whole days. And the horrible thing is, I think it's really just because there simply is nothing else to keep us occupied.

The library lies at the end of a long corridor on the ground floor and, surprisingly, is not as gloomy and contaminated with Dark Magic as the rest of the house. Also, Kreacher seems to have come here regularly, dusting the shelves. It's an odd thought. Maybe this used to be one of his old Master's and Mistress' favourite rooms? Professor Lupin and Sirius have checked it thoroughly and removed all the portraits of glaring Wizards and Witches. But as I sit over my books at the black polished table I can't stop wondering what the library still might be holding secret.

Who can concentrate on History of Magic anyway? I have finished the 22 inches for Professor Binns yesterday, at least a rather good draft of it. A little advanced reading never comes amiss, as Hermione says, and I'm sure she's right, but still… Losing track of the chapter for the fifth time, I slide out of my chair – Ron and Hermione are huddled together in a deep discussion about Potions – and make for the high shelves at the end of the room.

I remember Sirius' words when he introduced us to his family's library: 'You'll find your Charms and Potions texts over here. Most of it rather advanced, some of it may be better kept in the Restricted Section at Hogwarts. But you'll also find your more elemental texts in between. Better stay away from the back left shelves. That's my dear old Dad's private collection, and it's rather disgusting.'

Left sounds like a good place to start, so I turn at the third shelf and see what's there.

But despite Sirius' warnings I am not exactly prepared. It seems the late Mr Black used to enjoy detailed descriptions of sexual absurdities and morbid kinks. There is a book about the use of seduction and refusal as a means of torture, for example. I regret having opened it immediately after doing so but it's hard to turn my eyes away for a long time.

Another one discusses the mating and breeding habits of Centaurs, including several chapters on 'mixed breeding'. With growing doubt and fascination I learn about Centaurs hauling off witches (particularly beautiful virgins) from their families and forcing them into intercourse.

'But the Centaur will not hear the young maiden's desperate crying. With beastly instinct, for no more than a brute he is, he climbs her, not ever courting her by civilized manners. The Centaur like the horse copulates by mounting the female from behind. In this way of animalistic coupling, which lacks any sign of human culture, he forces his way into her, disgracing not only her honour, but honour and customs of the wizarding race.'

There is a picture of the coupling. A bay-coloured Centaur has trapped a naked woman under himself. She is propped on a stack of wood and squirming under him, red-faced and screaming. Another one is in his arms and they are wildly kissing.

My hands are sweaty. Every child overhears their parents sometimes, and Fred and George have filled me in with the necessary facts. But this is different. I can't stop staring at the women and their silently distorted faces. But I remember where I am and put the book back with a hasty glance to the front of the shelves.

Ron and Hermione are still mumbling among themselves. It's safe to pick up another book.

'Degenerate sexual habits among the Muggle youth and their destructive influence on Morale and Reproduction.'

The tone in which the small brochure is written is quite different from the others on the shelf. It has all the features of a ministry publication teaching young witches and wizards the rights and wrongs of the world. I slightly wonder how it has made its way into this collection.

The contents cover topics such as Polygamy, Homosexuality, Sadomasochism and other 'sexual abnormalities'. Despite the annoyingly lecturing tone it catches my curiousity. Leafing through the pages, I stop at the chapter on homosexuality. It says:

'Often girls or young women abandon men and the natural heterosexual lifestyle. When a woman is corrupted to lesbianism she denies her innate femininity. Where she once was sweet, gentle and modest, her deranged sexual senses make her harsh, unmannerly and dominant. In the Muggle world the lesbian lifestyle is getting more and more common especially in the cities. Increasing numbers of homosexual women meet at pubs to drink alcohol, smoke and join up for sexual activities. Many have shed their female appearance completely, wearing their hair short and dressing in men's clothing.

'Young witches should be warned not to follow those Muggle women in their dangerous behavior! This unhealthy manly demeanour destabilizes a young witch's psyche and soul. Never should you pretend to be something else than what you actually are. How can you expect to win a wizard's love when you dress up like a man? And isn't love between witch and wizard and the marriage between them the most wonderful thing in the world? Think about how a lesbian lifestyle could never present you with children – the greatest gift to a wife.'

Again there are illustrations. Snogging couples with short-cropped hair. Some are wearing baggy trousers, and some have large tattoos or piercings. Like in the other book, the pictures are designed to look repulsive, but there is something intriguing about them. The women don't touch each other in the Centaur's brutal way but with reciprocal lust. I can't help thinking that it does look natural and right, even if the text says something else.

The trousers and shirts they wear remind me of the clothes I keep in my own trunk. I give the women a closer look. What are the differences between a man and a woman when both wear clothes and hair in the same style? Long-fingered hands maybe, and jaw lines and a tilted hip?

I'm too immersed in the picture to notice that I am biting my lip and holding the booklet with both hands close to my face. The approaching footsteps are completely lost to me.

'There you are.' That is Hermione. And Ron, 'What's this?' He has ripped the thing from me before I can help it. 'What do you want with it?' he demands, sounding surprised and dismayed. I can only stare at him, we are both equally lost.

'We came to fetch you for lunch.' says Hermione, rescuing us, and then turns to leave. Ron tosses the brochure at one of the shelves and stalks after her. I am hurt and bewildered. It's only a book, isn't it?

 

*°*°*

 

That night when I listen to Hermione's breathing I'm far from sleeping. I think about how Ron couldn't stop talking about the brochure at lunch. As if it had been he who had found it. He kept rambling, although I saw Hermione kicking him under the table. I wished he would stop. Your look made me nervous. But you didn't ask any questions. You were simply watching me.

It was Mom who started a fit. 'What do you mean, explicit? Pornographic?!' She glared at each of us in fury and then rounded up on Sirius: 'I thought you and Remus had cleared the library of all Dark artifacts!'

I wasn't able to unclench my teeth to say that it wasn't Dark. That I had found it by accident. That I hadn't done anything forbidden. Powerless and voiceless with rage I sat, while Sirius spoke for me. 'These books are certainly quite strange, Molly, but definitely not Dark or dangerous. I also think there are more urgent areas in the house to decontaminate at the moment.'

Of course, that didn't pacify her. Fuming, she shouted of 'moral disintegration' and 'irresponsible adults', while all our eyes were fixed on the table. 'And you, Ginevra Weasley, will not even think of going near those books again, are we clear?'

In the Great Battle of Generations, she always wins. She strode to the library right away and took you with her to build a ward around the whole section of shelves.  
It was only hours later, when dinner had passed without me and Dad was home from work, that my shock slightly lifted. We could hear her them debating the book in the kitchen. Her scolding sounded up in the hallway, where we stood, me purple-faced, my brothers and Hermione in a circle around me and half-pitying, half-curious. I couldn't stand it. 'I was only looking at it!' I shouted at the closed door. 'I didn't do anything!'

Mrs Black started howling in her portrait. 'Blood-traitors! Perverts!'

In helpless exasperation, I stomped upstairs and got ready for bed.

My bed is the one at the window. Since I cannot sleep anyway, I sit and watch the nightly city outside. Only two or three street lights are still lit in Grimmauld Place, and the few yellow windows are forming an irregular pattern.

Mom's reaction on finding the book scares me more than it enrages me. What would she do, if she found the men's clothes in my trunk? Would she join Mrs Black's portrait and call me a pervert? Would she quote the Ministry brochure, declaring that I am already corrupt? Am I corrupt?

My thoughts circle back to the Muggle women in the brochure. It looked so easy on them, didn't it? Do they always live like men and get treated like men? Do they really escape their weak female lives? It must be easier in the Muggle world where they have pubs and clubs. Surely, if there are things like lesbianism, there are all kinds of other things.

I just wish there was a way to leave this mess behind. The window and the city take me away. Somewhere behind those lights lie Diagon Alley and the narrow cobbled lane of Knockturn Alley.  
Hermione shifts in her bed and then props herself on her elbows. 'You're still awake.'

I merely stare outside, while she gets herself something to drink.

'Are you thinking of Michael?' I haven't been thinking of him for over a week, which probably isn't a good sign, so I only grunt in response. It takes another while before she says: 'About the book-' But I cut her off. 'What is it about that book? Why is everyone so keen to discuss it? I've only been looking!'

'You were not only looking. You were looking closely. And reading it.'

'And that's a crime why exactly?'

'I'm not saying that it's a crime. I'm not saying anything. Don't get defensive, please. It's just… Look, maybe not everyone is as conservative about this as your mother. I think she's maybe… overreacting.'

Overreacting! That comes not even close to it! 'What do you mean?'

'I mean, she may not accept your… preferences today, but she might accept it one day. And there are other people who are okay with it. You shouldn't let her judge you. That's all.'

Slowly I'm getting it. She thinks I am like the women in the book who sleep with other women – a lesbian! For a moment that idea silences me. I haven't even thought of that. To be honest, I don't care much about who I snog right now. What I care about is, getting away from Mom, getting out of this house and out of this nightie… Getting into a pair of jeans and onto my broom. The question of preferring girls or boys is rather low on my priority list. And it hurts that Hermione makes it an issue when other things are much more pressing.

I say very stiffly: 'I haven't been thinking of Michael lately because there've been other things on my mind. Really, it's fine.'

She shoots a doubtful look at me. 'Just think about it, Ginny, please.' But when I don't reply, she falls silent again.

Turning back to the window, I think over her words. She has got a good point, I think: I shouldn't let Mom judge me. What does she know anyway? Defiance rises in me again. Suddenly the thought of breakfast tomorrow morning – nice and friendly in skirt and stockings, with toast and eggs, maybe – becomes unbearable. I realize I need to do something immediately.

Fred and George taught me that nothing is impossible, if you have a good plan. My plan is called Knockturn Alley. They say you can get anything there. Really, I've had enough of sitting around and acting the nice little girl while they do what they like. If it takes boyish recklessness and courage to get out of here – well, I've got loads of that!

When I'm fairly sure that Hermione is asleep again, I slide out of bed.

As quiet as humanly possible I get dressed in my boy's wear and grab my Dragon Scout before sneaking out of the room. I have to make a detour to the bedroom on the third floor we were working on yesterday. In the dresser in the corner lies a small case of golden rings, each with a different-coloured gemstone. It does feel a bit like stealing, since technically all of this belongs to Sirius. And I didn't tell him about the jewels when I found them in the drawer yesterday. But on the other hand, he has got lots of golden heirlooms and hates it. So I take the whole jewel case.

First I actually think I can fly the distance to the Leaky Cauldron. I have been to the Muggle side once or twice and remember a pointy tower in the immediate neighbourhood, but I didn't expect there to be so many towers in Muggle London. How should I ever find the right area? Finally, freezing despite of the mild June night, I drop to street level and stretch out my arm for the Knight Bus.

 

*°*°*

 

The pub is full despite the late hour, but it's not the friendly, colourful mix of customers one usually sees at day time. I push my way through drunkards and shabby looking witches to reach the passage. Someone grabs my sleeve, 'Aye lad, ain't ye a bit young to be out this late?' But pulling free, I move on and no one else stops me.

Only when I step onto the empty cobbles of Diagon Alley my fear rises. The shadows are longer and deeper than the stretches of light that are cast by the rare street lamps. Nervously aware of the broom that I am still clutching in my hand, I put a shrinking spell on it and tuck it in my pocket. Then I start walking down the street, my steps sounding uncannily loud behind me.

They stare at me at the mouth of Knockturn Alley – the tattered witch with the piercing gaze and the wizard in his dragon skin robes, whose skin colour is of a creepy white that makes me wince inwardly. It takes all my courage to keep walking as if I know where I'm going to. Everything is better than the spooky silence of Diagon Alley behind me, I tell myself. Pulling my robe tight around me and ignoring the comments, I stride forward and glance at the signs until I find what I am looking for – 'Potions for all Purposes'.  
So this is it then. My stomach is a tight knot and for a moment I wonder what I'm doing here. But there is no going back now. Pushing my chin forward grimly, I enter the shop.

I ask for a potion that fulfills my specific needs. I explain that I'm not a boy, but I'd like to be, for some time, does he understand? I feel helpless against his smeary gaze, but then he accioes a tiny crystal phial. It seems stupid to ask too many questions. This will really turn me into a boy? But it won't be permanent, will it? And will there be side effects?

He only leans down to me until I smell his breath: 'Young lady, this is what you came for. Drink it in one dose, it will wear off after some time. Don't worry about any side effects.'

So I hand over the jewel case, and after he checked the gold and gemstones the deal is made.

Stepping out onto the cobbled street, I hold the phial in my tight fist. If possible, Knockturn Alley looks even gloomier than before. Uncertainly, I start walking back the way I came. My plan only went so far. Where do I go now? I can't very well drink the potion right here in front of the shop. Should I save it for when I have more space, more time?

This is when a man steps up to me from the shadows. 'I wouldn't drink that, if I were you.'

Instinctive fear makes me stumble backwards. He doesn't look like the smeary figures that were hovering over me as I was walking down Knockturn Alley. Instead he is cleanly shaven and there is something familiar about his brown eyes, but I'm quite sure that I haven't seen him before. Confused and anxious, I keep my hand on my wand.

But the man pays less attention to me than to our surroundings. The lane seems to be empty, but in the darkness it's impossible to tell what is more than 10 feet away. 'Listen,' he pleads. 'Don't drink potions you don't know. Especially not the ones from 'round here. Got me?' His tone is friendly and that bewilders me even more.

'Let's get away from the street.' he says.

'I'm not going anywhere with you. Who are you anyway? And why -'

'Stop shouting.' he hisses. And then, very calmly: 'I'm going to take out my wand and perform a silencing charm. You can do one of your own. But if you do, do it one-way only.'

That silences me for a minute. But as I see him draw his wand, I follow swiftly. He only does what he said, though. Two minutes later, we are enclosed by two silencing charms that exclude unwelcome listeners.

'Now as to who I am,' he continues, 'I'm a friend of your parent's and have been present for lunch today.'

I didn't expect an attack from that side. They sent someone after me? But Sirius can only shift to dog form, not to another human body. So… 'Tonks?'

Something changes about his eyes. It's only a tiny smidge, but suddenly they become a shade darker and twinkling, and then they are your eyes. 'No worries, Ginny, I'm here to help you.'

 

*°*°*

 

You don't change back immediately when we arrive at your flat, that's one thing I notice – whatever 'back' means to a metamorphmagus. Instead you order me to sit on a fancy yellow sofa in the sitting room and perch yourself on a tiny table in front of me. You look at me sternly and some of the friendliness has gone from your voice. Obviously you don't plan on sending me home right away, but my stomach knots up anyway. 'Give me that flask.' you say.

I won't. 'I bought it! It's mine!'

'Please, Ginny. I told you in Knockturn Alley that it's extremely dangerous. You don't know what it does.'

'Sure I do. That's why I bought it!'

Instead of arguing, you lick your lips – it looks nervous, and a strange gesture on a man of your appearance. 'Do you really.' you say slowly. And there might be something else in your voice which I can't place.

I catch myself searching for similarities between your male features and the pink-haired witch I know from Grimmauld Place. Now that I know that it's you I detect the typical tilt of your head and a chewed fingernail.

'Why did you go as a man tonight?' I ask. 'Or why have you never done it before?'

Leaning back on your palms, you shoot back: 'Why do you want to change into a boy so hard?'

Not fair. 'I asked first.'

'Alright.' Your mouth is twisting. 'If you give me that flask, I'll answer all your questions.'

My curiosity wins and I pass over the phial. Instead of putting it in your pocket, you lock it away in a cupboard in the kitchen. Do you think I'd steal it from you in your sleep? Returning, you levitate a steaming pot of tea and two cups, one of which you break and have to do a Reparo. Then you settle in the sofa opposite of mine.

'In fact, you're asking the wrong questions.' you say. 'I don't *change* into a man because I'm not normally a woman. In fact I can be both or anything between.'

That doesn't make sense. 'I've never seen you as a man before, and I don't think anybody else has. They all refer to you as "she", as "Miss Tonks" and so on.' If I had that ability, I would definitely use it more often, I think.

'It was my parents' decision when I was very young. They brought me up as a girl and so everyone treats me like a woman today. But that doesn't necessarily mean that I myself feel that way.'

'Do you feel like a man or rather like a woman?'

You laugh. 'Neither. I'm neither. The woman Nymphadora Tonks is me, of course. But it's only a small part of what I am. This is another part.' you indicate your current shape. 'People don't usually call me "Nymphadora", if I can do something about it.' You smile.

I listen with fascination. Isn't this similar to my own situation? – Everyone treats me like a girl, but there is a part of me that feels wrong and uncomfortable with this female body and behavior. The part that wants to be a boy sometimes, even though I'm not a metamorphmagus.

'So you go out as a man in secret?' I ask.

'Yes, sometimes. Imagine your mum, for example, if I came by for dinner in the shape you see me tonight.'

I try but can't quite manage it. Maybe Mom wouldn't recognize you like I didn't.

'When my mum discovered I kept *changing* into a boy, as she called it, at the age of 8 she forbade me the contact with all my male friends at school. When she found out I still did it at the age of twelve, she took me out of Hogwarts for a year and put me into private tutoring until she was sure I had stopped. I'm quite sure, if she knew what I was doing now, she would stop talking to me out of shame.'

I gawp at you. Suddenly Mom's fury at the finding of the brochure becomes much more imminent and dangerous. I'm starting to feel physically ill. Mom's outbreak today was nothing compared to what might expect me at my return. And it becomes clear that I have to return to Number 12, Grimmauld Place. No broomstick or potion in the world can save me. Oh, what a tremendously stupid plan!

'Are you going to tell Mom that I bought the potion?' My voice breaks.

'Oh Ginny!' You are there with me on the sofa and pull me into your arms. 'I haven't and I won't, I promise! Your secrets are safe with me.' I think I'm crying.

 

*°*°*

 

It's the end of a horrible day and a dreadful night. If your arms weren't there, I'd be drowning. But eventually, you nudge me gently. 'I think we better take you back now.' The faintest shade of grey is colouring the horizon.

It is as if all the stones are being laid back onto my chest, one by one. But I know you are right, I have to go back. Taking a heavy breath, I stumble to my feet.

You step up next to me and take my hand in yours. With a series of complete wand gestures and spells, the whole room starts glowing brightly as a white web of strings and symbols becomes visible along the walls, doors and fireplace. It's your wards, I realize.

When the gleam is fading you turn to me with a smile. 'The wards know you now. You should be able to come here at any time when you feel you need it, I think.'

The knot in my stomach slightly loosens as a wave of warmth is flooding through my belly. 'Thanks.'

We step through the fireplace together and emerge in the dark, empty kitchen of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. I make the way to the stairs alone and turn to look at you from the first step. You've already gathered your Floo powder, giving me an encouraging smile. It's good to know that there is an escape route ready


End file.
